<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Problem with Vampires by medievalfantasist</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544378">The Problem with Vampires</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/medievalfantasist/pseuds/medievalfantasist'>medievalfantasist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:20:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544378</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/medievalfantasist/pseuds/medievalfantasist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is hard enough for a witcher--especially a girl witcher--without a vampire sticking his nose in.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It started in Velen. Or what used to be Velen, before Nilfgaard rolled north, eating huge swaths of Brugge and Sodden and Lyria and Vengerberg and Vizima.</p><p>Or maybe it started in Haern Caduch, where Della had been subjected to the mutations, chemicals poured through her veins, changing her from the inside out.</p><p>Or perhaps even before that, when she’d been scooped off the streets of Novigrad by a man the size of a bear, with a silver medallion to match, and told she was going to be made into a Witcher. If she survived.</p><p>None of it would have happened if she hadn’t undergone Witcher training and mutations, after all. She’d have starved on the streets instead, or maybe sold herself to a brothel. Her life would definitely have been less eventful.</p><p>But the first incident in her Problem With Rhellen, as she began to think of it, definitely occurred in Velen.</p><p>Nilfgaard had settled in, halted in their northward expansion by the Pontar River and the loss of the emperor’s daughter—again. The Path had brought Della south from a stint in Kovir, fleeing the cold of winter after hunting a few monsters in the Dragon Mountains.</p><p>Her coin had brought her as far as Crow’s Perch, a military outpost that still showed signs of having once been a Northern fort, but was now overrun with men wearing black and white, the occasional splash of red on guards’ armor.</p><p><em>There’s not going to be any work here, </em>she thought as she rode in under the watchful eyes of the Nilfgaardian soldiers. <em>Not for a Witcher. Especially not for a </em>girl <em>Witcher.</em></p><p>But she needed <em>something</em>. She was on her last few coins, her last few potions, her last bit of food, and her horse needed a new shoe. She’d chop wood or work a kitchen for a while if she had to—she’d done more demeaning work in the absence of monsters—but she’d much prefer to hunt a griffin. Or a forktail. Or a nekker, for fuck’s sake. Anything that would pay.</p><p>The outer walls of the keep surrounded a small village. She held Gwyn, her horse, to a careful walk as they wended their way through the village up to the inner keep. Hardly anyone paid her any attention, which was fine with Della. Until she had the lay of the land, she’d rather not risk being run out of the Perch by an unruly mob.</p><p>The inner walls held the keep proper, as well as the weaponsmith, armorsmith, blacksmith, and quartermaster. Now she drew more attention, the black ones watching her curiously and warily. People, especially men, often didn’t know what to make of her.</p><p>After all, everyone knew women couldn’t be Witchers.</p><p>A quick pat reassured her that her amulet, an enchanted piece of silver in the shape of a bear’s head, was visible outside her shirt. Very few people would dare wear a Witcher amulet without having earned it, though she’d been accused of that very thing more than once, despite the evidence of her yellow, cat-pupiled eyes and the hundreds of scars that spoke to her battles.</p><p>The stables were full, so Della dismounted outside and tied Gwyn to a fence. “Guard,” she told the horse, and went to look for a notice board.</p><p>The board was covered with the usual. Weathered notes about missing people—not her job unless monster activity was suspected, and also lots of people went missing in and after wartime. Accusations of witchcraft, specifically curses on crops and livestock—usually just nature taking its course and people being upset with their neighbors. People looking for specific household or farm implements and offering ridiculous or insulting trades in return—a wheelbarrow for a horseshoe, a plow for a mended bucket.</p><p>No monsters. Not even a card game or horserace she could possibly make some money on. That was a shame; she enjoyed a good race, and so did Gwyn.</p><p>She wasn’t surprised. The locals were much more likely to ask the Nilfgaardian commander for help than post on a notice board. And the commander would either send his own men or go actively looking for a Witcher, not just wait for one to fall into his lap. So to speak.</p><p>She braced her fists on her hips and gave the board one more scan as though a notice would magically appear, then turned away with a sigh.</p><p>“You.”</p><p>Even the single word carried the heavy accent of Nilfgaard. She looked up into the visored helm of a sergeant-at-arms.</p><p>“Yes?” she responded.</p><p>“You <em>vatt’ghern</em>?”</p><p>She knew enough Elder to recognize the word, even in his atrocious accent. The elves she’d dealt with, mostly Scoia’tael, spoke it with lilting, even lyrical ease. The Nilfgaardians sounded like they were stomping on their own language with every syllable.</p><p>“Yes,” she said again.</p><p>He grunted. “You come,” he said. Then he turned and walked away, fully expecting her to follow.</p><p>Of course, what else was she going to do?</p><p>She trailed after him, up a set of wooden stairs into a manor house, then down a hall to a large room that served as the commander’s office.</p><p>Her escort said something in Nilfgaardian, and the commander looked up, gave her body a dismissive sweep of his eyes, and growled something back. The ensuing argument sounded like grinding rocks, but she picked up that the commander didn’t believe she was a Witcher—<em>typical</em>—and was threatening to have the sergeant flogged for wasting his time. The sergeant pointed out her eyes, her amulet, and the one currently-visible scar, a set of scratch marks on her jaw where she’d barely dodged a katakan’s swipe.</p><p>The commander rolled his eyes and dismissed the sergeant with a wave of his hand. The sergeant left without a second look at Della. She crossed her arms, planted her feet, and waited for the angry-looking man behind the desk to say something.</p><p>He took his time, examining her with clear displeasure and skepticism.</p><p>“<em>Vatt’ghern</em>,” he said finally.</p><p>“Yes,” Della said.</p><p>“No women <em>vatt’ghern</em>. Is known.”</p><p>“I’m a special case.”</p><p>His eyes dropped to her amulet, and his brows bunched in even closer. In a minute, she thought, his whole face would collapse in on itself.</p><p>“Bear School,” he said. She didn’t dignify the obvious with an answer.</p><p>He got to his feet, towering above her by half a meter, and jerked his head for her to follow him. She rolled her eyes at his back, but followed.</p><p>Out in the yard, Gwyn had a man—Temerian, not Nilfgaardian—by the front of the shirt. If a horse could growl, Della would have been able to hear her from here. Gwyn’s tether was half-undone from the post, and the man was as wide-eyed as the horse.</p><p>“Hey!” Della yelled.</p><p>“Is this your horse?” the man asked. “Because she seems to be upset with me.”</p><p>Della went around the commander to pat Gwyn’s neck. The man’s eyes dropped to her amulet and understanding dawned.</p><p>“Apologies, Mast—Mistress Witcher,” he said. “I didn’t realize this was a Witcher’s horse. But there’s a spot open in the stables. I was <em>going</em>—” he glared at Gwyn—“to stable her and rub her down and give her some oats, but she clearly had other ideas.”</p><p>“At ease, Gwyn,” Della said. Gwyn let go of the man’s shirt, and he almost went backward into the mud. “Sorry,” she told the man. “I have a few valuables.”</p><p>“Silver sword and the like,” the man nodded. “You ain’t our first Witcher. The Butcher came through few years back. Before the Black Ones got this far north.”</p><p>It took Della a moment to place who he meant, then she remembered the nickname given to Geralt, the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken. Most other Witchers cringed when he came up. He’d gotten too famous, too involved in major world events, for any single Witcher. They were supposed to come into town, kill a monster, get paid, and leave. They were supposed to be interchangeable, not memorable. They <em>definitely </em>weren’t supposed to be surrogate fathers to emperors’ daughters. Or get romantically involved with sorceresses.</p><p>“Thanks for taking care of her,” Della said, giving Gwyn another pat to assure her that all was in order.</p><p>The commander was waiting impatiently when Della turned back to him. He led her around the stables, to a little space between the palisade surrounding the Perch and the stable wall.</p><p>She smelled the body before she saw it. Nothing else smelled like rotting flesh, and this was clearly several days old. She eased toward the limp pile of meat and shredded clothing that had been unceremoniously dumped in this tiny alley.</p><p>“What kill him?” the commander demanded, hand over his mouth and nose.</p><p>Della crouched, elbows on knees, and inspected the corpse. “Where was it found?” she asked.</p><p>“What it matter?” the commander asked.</p><p>“It’ll help me figure out what’s decay and what’s wounds,” she said. “Also what monster killed him.”</p><p>The commander glanced toward the east. “Outside cave,” he said. “Cave full of bones, but old. This new.”</p><p>“Had anything been eating the body?”</p><p>“No. But had only been dead maybe few hours then.”</p><p>“How long ago was that?”</p><p>“Two days.”</p><p>That tracked. Armed with this information, Della examined the body. The face had several long wounds that might have been scratches before decay had split the skin. The throat gaped, ripped open. The clothing was torn, more scratches marring the rest of the body. Picking up a stick, Della pushed one of the cuts open further. There was practically no blood in or around the wound, and no lividity to indicate the position of the body at death.</p><p><em>Scratches, throats, cave, blood, </em>Della mused as she stood back up. <em>Werewolf? Vampire? I should go look at the location.</em></p><p>“Well?” the commander demanded.</p><p>“Where’s the cave?” Della asked.</p><p>The commander’s nostrils flared, but he jerked his head east. “Outside. Few miles, bit south of ruined tower.”</p><p>Della nodded. “Before I go, we should talk about my pay.”</p><p>“Of course I will pay,” the commander said. “Find killer, fifty crowns. Arrest human, fifty crowns. Kill monster, one hundred crowns.”</p><p>“Two hundred for killing a monster,” Della countered.</p><p>“One twenty five.”</p><p>“Two hundred.”</p><p>“One fifty.”</p><p>“Two hundred.”</p><p>The commander glared at her. Della raised an eyebrow. Figuring out what killed the man wasn’t the hard part. If it was a human, which Della doubted, anyone could arrest him. But monsters were her specialty. He couldn’t hire just anyone to kill a monster.</p><p>“Fine,” he said. “Two hundred.”</p><p>“Deal. I’ll be back in a few hours.”</p><p>She retrieved Gwyn from the stable and headed out, walking the horse through the small town, then opening up to a canter once past the walls and moat and out on the open road. The sun was just a hint past zenith, high behind her as she rode east. She turned slightly north at a farmstead to ford the river that wound lazily west, then continued east for another hour before spotting the ruined tower on a hill away to her left. A smaller hill south of it looked promising for a cave.</p><p>On the north side of the hill, Della found the opening. She swung out of the saddle and pulled her silver sword from its carry-case strapped to Gwyn’s saddle. Not solid silver, of course; that would be useless against everything. Steel-cored, steel-edged, but imbued with silver to fight those monsters that were weak against it. Which included werewolves <em>and </em>vampires.</p><p>Blade in hand, she eased into the darkness beyond the cave mouth.</p><p>The cave was small enough that the bit of light that filtered in allowed her to see the whole thing well enough. Someone without the mutations would likely be blind, but her cat-slitted pupils expanded to take in every bit of light.</p><p>Which meant that she didn’t discover the pile of bones by stepping on it.</p><p>The commander had been right; they were old. Too old for this particular monster, if indeed it was holing up here. These had been here for years. No cloth remained on any of the bodies, and the ground under them was littered with coins, buckles, buttons, anything that didn’t degrade as quickly as wool and cotton. No blood save for some very old staining on the stone under the bones. She made a mental note of the coins; if things went badly, she might stop here on her way out. Robbing the dead wasn’t particularly noble, but a Witcher had to eat.</p><p>Della closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath, mouth open, tasting for old scents. Dust. The faintest hint of decay. An old musk, probably from whatever had lived here and killed these people. Draconid and venom. A basilisk, probably. But long gone, cleared out by some other Witcher, possibly even Geralt himself.</p><p>Even if it hadn’t been long dead, the wounds on the corpse didn’t match a basilisk. There’d been no sign of poisoning, and the gouges had been too small. A basilisk could disembowel a man with one strike, but wouldn’t leave a series of deep scratches. Or rip out his throat but leave the rest of the body without eating it.</p><p>So, something else, then. Something new that had moved in after the basilisk had been killed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t here now. Moved on? Or hiding?</p><p>The commander had said they’d found the body outside the cave. Della turned and left the cave, but stopped just outside, looking for signs of a body dump.</p><p>A flattened patch of grass looked likely, but there wasn’t any blood. Had the body been moved? Killed elsewhere and then left here?</p><p>
  <em>Or exsanguinated?</em>
</p><p>She looked around for a trail, footprints or drag marks or anything to indicate where the body had been carried from. All she found was a set coming from the road toward the cave, hesitantly, as if the man had heard a noise and come to investigate.</p><p><em>You’d think people would know better.</em> Strange noises didn’t always indicate a monster, but often enough that people shouldn’t investigate on their own. That was a great way to end up dead.</p><p>Marks came out of the cave, but they were muddy and inconclusive.</p><p><em>So he came this way, </em>Della thought, following the trail back toward the cave. Gwyn stood calmly, looking bored. She was used to her mutant human wandering around and muttering to herself. <em>Got up to the cave, maybe called into it? And then something came out and killed him. Drained his blood. Or—a coagulating venom? Thickened it so he didn’t bleed at all?</em></p><p>She couldn’t think of a creature that could do that, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t one.</p><p>The more likely answer was a vampire. Not a higher vampire; they didn’t live in caves, and they rarely drank human blood, despite their reputations. Unless one was in very bad shape, it definitely wouldn’t completely drain a human. Lower vampires—katakans, ekimmara, fleders—tended to maul their victims while killing and draining them.</p><p>
  <em>If it’s a vampire, it’s powerful, but not “higher.” So a bruxa. Or an alp. Or a mula.</em>
</p><p>Della braced her hands on her hips, considering her options. Tracking was out of the question; vampires rarely left tracks unless they were being very careless. She could wait here and see if the vampire was denning here or had moved on. She could go back to the Perch and warn everyone not to come out here in case the vampire came back.</p><p>She squinted at the position of the sun. Late afternoon, now, heading quickly toward evening.</p><p>
  <em>Right, then.</em>
</p><p>Stashing the silver sword back in its saddle-bag and out of the way, she began unstrapping her armor from the back of the saddle. Gwyn stood stock-still, feet planted, as she did so. Della gave her a quick pat on the rump when the armor was free, then unsaddled the horse, leaving only the blanket draped over Gwyn’s back. If anything happened to Della, Gwyn at least could run away unencumbered by her tack.</p><p>The armor was heavy but flexible, all hard leather and mail for absorbing blows that got past her sword. She rarely wore a helmet, preferring to be able to see. And anything that managed a blow to her head was likely to kill her anyway, helmet or no. After cinching all the buckles tight and doing a few stretches to make sure nothing bound up, she retrieved her sword, sheathed it across her back, and found a relatively flat and stone-free spot near the entrance to the cave.</p><p>Kneeling, she rested her hands on her thighs, took a deep breath, and sank into a meditative trance. Her consciousness drifted, taking in every breath of wind, every rustle of leaf. The river burbled, and she pushed the sound away. Time passed. The world grew dark outside her closed lids. Wind whooshed, the river chuckled, leaves rustled.</p><p>Something crushed grass beneath a foot.</p><p>It was barely a whisper of sound, but Witcher senses were particularly keen. Della’s eyes opened, pupils expanding. She waited, unmoving.</p><p>Another footfall, closer. Della turned her head slowly, watching from the corner of her eye over her left shoulder.</p><p>The shadow moved into her sight, a low hiss emanating from it.</p><p>Bruxa.</p><p>“Witcher,” the vampire growled.</p><p>Della rose, pivoting on the balls of her feet to come up facing the vampire. She looked human, bright green eyes and black curls under a cloak that covered her from head to toe.</p><p>“Bruxa,” Della replied.</p><p>The vampire pulled in a deep breath, taking in Della’s scent. “You reek of magic,” she said. “Have you come to kill me, little Witcher?”</p><p>“That is generally what happens to monsters who kill people,” Della said. “It’s nothing personal.”</p><p>“He came to me,” the bruxa said. “I didn’t hunt him. It’s his fault.”</p><p>“He came to you and asked to be torn to shreds, did he?”</p><p>“He came to <em>me</em>. And I was <em>hungry.</em>”</p><p>Della sighed. The sword whispered as she pulled it from its sheath.</p><p>The bruxa shrieked, her cloak flying into the air. She was naked underneath, her skin grey and thin, her curls suddenly lank. She opened her mouth wide, too wide, jaw distending, claws sprouting from her fingertips. Slaver dripped from her fangs. And she leapt.</p><p>Della spun, letting the vampire fly past her, lashing out with the sword. The metal bit into the back of the bruxa’s thigh with a hiss, leaving a smoking line in its flesh. The bruxa whirled, fast, faster than an unmutated human would even be able to see, and came at Della again. But Della was ready, and her sword sank to the hilt in the bruxa’s chest, the vampire’s face inches from Della’s own. Clawed feet scrabbled at the ground as the piercing green light of its eyes slowly dimmed, then went out.</p><p>Panting, Della pulled the sword from its chest, letting the body <em>thud </em>to the ground. Then she took its head off with one strong hack.</p><p>The body she burned in place, a quick flick of fingers in the Igni sign pouring flame over it. The head she tied to Gwyn’s saddle. Her sword she cleaned and put away. And then she headed back to Crow’s Perch, the moon high overhead.</p><p>The guards didn’t want to wake the commander at first, but a bruxa head dumped practically on their feet changed their minds. The commander arrived in the yard wrapped in his dressing-gown—black, of course—eyes sleepy until he saw the head.</p><p>“Bruxa,” he said. “Ah.”</p><p>He turned and muttered something to one of his men, and minutes later, Della’s purse was two hundred and fifty crowns heavier.</p><p>She spent the night in the stable with Gwyn, leaving Crow’s Perch before the sun came up.</p><p>“Where should we go?” she asked the horse. “We can get most anywhere on this.” She patted her purse, securely tied to her belt. “All the way to Nilfgaard city if we want.”</p><p>Gwyn whickered.</p><p>“Or we could sail out to Skellige.”</p><p>Gwyn snorted.</p><p>“No, I know you don’t like boats. I suppose we’ll head south and see where we end up.”</p><p>The day was nice, with a clear blue sky overhead, a gentle breeze, food in Della’s pack, and money in her purse. This was all a Witcher could want.</p><p>She camped next to a small stream that night, using Gwyn’s saddle as a pillow.</p><p>And woke to find a dark shape next to the embers of her campfire.</p><p>She shot upright, sword in hand, bare feet dancing backward over the grass. The shape didn’t move.</p><p>“What kind of greeting is that?” it asked in a voice mellow as honey and threatening as thunder. “One might get the idea that one is not welcome.”</p><p>“Who are you?” Della demanded.</p><p>The shape reached up and pushed a hood back, revealing a handsome, if slightly pale, young man.</p><p>Della sighed. Another vampire. Higher, this time. Very nearly human, but not quite.</p><p>“You reek of magic,” he said.</p><p>“What is it with vampires and <em>smelling </em>people?” Della asked.</p><p>He didn’t respond. “An alteration spell,” he remarked. “A strong one. What are you hiding, little Witcher? What sorceress put that on you?”</p><p>“None of your business.”</p><p>He looked exasperated. “Sit,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p>Della didn’t have a lot of experience with vampires, but if a higher one did want to hurt her, she suspected there wasn’t much she could do. Not without a lot of preparation—potions, oils, armor, the works. She went back to her bedroll and sat, sword across her lap.</p><p>“It’s unusual to meet a Witcher with as strong a magic aura as you,” he said. “You’re not also a sorceress, are you?”</p><p>Della snorted.</p><p>He narrowed his eyes at her speculatively. “Deformed?”</p><p>She twitched. That was closer to the truth, but still not quite it.</p><p>His eyes flicked to her amulet, then to her face, and he had it. “You’re a—”</p><p>“A woman,” Della snapped. “As I was always meant to be.”</p><p>“I should have known immediately,” he said. “The mutations don’t work on girls. Only the School of the Cat has managed it, and they took those secrets with them when they died out.”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about this,” Della said.</p><p>“Very well.” He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Let’s talk about you killing my friend.”</p><p>“The bruxa? She murdered a man. That’s what Witchers do.”</p><p>“She wouldn’t have needed to if humans didn’t continuously push us out,” the vampire said. “She was kind, and gentle, and <em>starving</em>.”</p><p>“I can’t help that.”</p><p>He sighed. “No,” he said. “I suppose you can’t.”</p><p>He rose, a dark shadow against the stars overhead. “If I were you, I would hope we don’t cross paths again,” he said.</p><p>“Who <em>are </em>you?” Della asked.</p><p>“My name is Rhellen,” he said, and then he was gone, faded into the darkness like a mist.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter dedicated to JehanCourf, who got me going on this again by saying "Witcher fic?! Gimme, I eat it."</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>South</em>, Della decided, had been a mistake. Or perhaps the mistake was not going far <em>enough </em>south—she’d heard Toussaint had avoided most of the destruction she saw in Temeria, in Sodden, and now in Rivia. The only up-side was that war brought monsters, and monsters brought money.</p>
<p>As in Temeria, conquering had mostly turned to occupation, and a tense peace existed between the Rivians and the black-clad Nilfgaardians. Not that there were many of them in the no-name town Della found herself in when a storm rolled down from Mahakam and dumped a lake’s worth of water on her head in minutes.</p>
<p>The town was too small for a proper inn, but it did have a common house, so Della secured Gwyn under the lean-to that passed for a stable. A donkey was the only other resident of the lean-to, and it watched Della and Gwyn with placid eyes as Della rubbed Gwyn down as well as she could with wet equipment. Gwyn buried her nose in the box of hay, ignoring the donkey.</p>
<p>When Gwyn’s needs were seen to, Della strode into the common house—which was mercifully empty of townsfolk and their staring eyes—and settled in next to the fire. Her cloak steamed, as did the bowl of thin stew the proprietor brought over. Della grunted her thanks and dug in.</p>
<p>She had one blessed hour of solitude, almost time for her cloak to dry, before the townsfolk began to filter in. The common room wasn’t large enough for her to slide into any shadows, so she merely pretended to ignore them.</p>
<p>And waited.</p>
<p>It didn’t take long.</p>
<p>“Oye, cat-eyes!” A man swaggered over to her, beer mug sloshing.</p>
<p><em>How is he </em>already <em>drunk? </em>she wondered.</p>
<p>“You’re a girl,” he continued.</p>
<p>Della raised an eyebrow at him, not deigning to respond to such an obvious remark.</p>
<p>“Ain’t no girl Witchers. Didja get a sorceress to magic your eyes? Steal a medallion off a dead Witcher?”</p>
<p>“Don’t be an idiot,” someone else said. “You think if she could afford a sorceress, she’d be in here with us?”</p>
<p>“Makes more sense than a girl Witcher,” the first man retorted.</p>
<p>“Just leave ‘er alone, Red,” the second said. He went back to his beer. Red glared at Della for another second, then staggered back over to his friends.</p>
<p>The rain continued, and Della despaired of getting out of this town before nightfall. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept leaned against the wall of a common house, or in a hostile town, though she tried to do it as little as possible. But as the light outside grew dimmer and the pounding of rain on the roof grew harder, she began to resign herself to asking the proprietor for permission to stay.</p>
<p>Then someone dropped heavily onto the bench opposite her. A mug slid across the table, the liquid inside steaming gently. The scent that reached her was alcohol and hops, nothing to concern her, not that most poisons could kill her. They’d be damned inconvenient, though.</p>
<p>“You really a Witcher?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Della accepted the mug and sipped; it was a warmed ale, better tasting than she had any reason to expect.</p>
<p>“Any experience with ghosts?”</p>
<p>Della looked up at the person—woman, she saw now, older and heavyset, worn down from years of hard labor. The state of her hands said <em>farmer</em>. The downward slide of her mouth said <em>despair</em>. The set of her shoulders said <em>determination</em>.</p>
<p>“Some,” Della said. In truth, she’d lost count of the number of wraiths she’d handled over the years. They seemed to be the most frequent monster, probably because they were created from human failings—malice, indifference, cruelty.</p>
<p>“I ain’t got much,” the woman said. “But I can put you up and feed you if you’ll come take care of the one what’s blighting my farm.”</p>
<p>“You’re wasting your time, Bess,” Red yelled from his table. In the last hours, his face had gone florid and damp, and his words slurred out of him. “Ain’t really a Witcher, and anyhow, Witchers only accept gold, and if you ain’t got it, you can hang.”</p>
<p>Bess’ shoulders tensed, but otherwise she ignored him. “I’ve heard that,” she said to Della. “But here’s hoping the stories are wrong. Or at least a girl Witcher has more compassion than otherwise.”</p>
<p>Della gave Bess her best impassive stare while she considered the offer—and the statement. The myth that Witchers had no feelings was equal parts annoyance and convenient defense. It had allowed Della to extricate herself from more bad situations than she could count, but it also made people hate her more than necessary. Bess hoped Della’s sex made her soft so she could pay Della nearly nothing to deal with her problem—but also, Della couldn’t leave a wraith free to kill people. And in this weather, shelter and a meal wasn’t nothing.</p>
<p>Della drained the mug. “Lead the way.”</p>
<p>The rain had made Gwyn miserable, head and tail drooping, and she only got more miserable as they went. The donkey turned out to be Bess’, and she led her a few miles down the road back the way Della had come, then off the road onto a trail that led up to a rundown but neatly-kept house. A nearby barn served as shelter for Gwyn and the donkey.</p>
<p>“Tell me about this ghost,” Della said as she cared for Gwyn. She couldn’t leave the horse soaking wet and cold, no matter how urgent the monster-matter was.</p>
<p>“There ain’t one,” said another voice, male, angry. Della didn’t turn to look, but she made sure her sword was within easy reach. “It’s just bad luck. She brung you out here for nothing.”</p>
<p>Bess’ hands were shaking, but she raised her chin. “I know it’s out there, I seen it,” she insisted. “And anyway, no harm in having a Witcher look at it.”</p>
<p>“You’re a damn fool, woman,” the man said, then heavy footsteps announced his departure.</p>
<p>“What time was it when you saw it?” Della asked.</p>
<p>“Bit after dusk,” Bess said. “Out in the wheat field. Well, t’was a wheat field. Nothing grows there now.”</p>
<p>“How long has this been going on?”</p>
<p>“Three years. ‘Tis spreading, too. Used to be just the wheat field. Then the cow wouldn’t milk. Then the chicken stopped laying. This keeps up, we’ll starve by next winter.”</p>
<p>“Anything strange happen around here three years ago?”</p>
<p>Bess frowned.</p>
<p>“Missing people, odd noises, the like,” Della explained.</p>
<p>Bess hesitated just long enough for Della to grow suspicious. “Not that I recall,” she said.</p>
<p>Della nodded, keeping her disbelief to herself. Something had happened, then, but Bess didn’t want to tell her about it. That could mean everything—or nothing. She glanced out the barn door at the rain, which hadn’t let up. The particular color of the clouds indicated that the sun was going down. Not much time, then.</p>
<p>“Point the way,” she said, fishing some oils and potions out of a saddlebag, then slinging her silver sword over a shoulder. “And stay here.”</p>
<p>The wheat field was, indeed, a desolation, nothing but beaten brown stalks and dirt—now mud. The ground sucked at her feet as she hiked into the middle of the field, muttering about idiots without enough sense to come in out of the rain as she did so.</p>
<p>White bone gleamed under her foot, and she hopped sideways to keep from treading on it. She crouched, examining the clearly human skull that the rain had revealed.</p>
<p>“Well, that explains a lot,” she said. Setting her sword aside, she began to dig. Soon an entire skeleton lay before her. Careful examination revealed two possible causes of death: notches on a rib that indicated stabbing and clear fracture on the back of the skull.</p>
<p>More interesting, or at least revealing, was the tiny collection of barely-formed bone in the pelvic region.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Della sighed, sitting back. “I’m so sorry, m’girl.” She’d seen this before. Multiple times. It was a tale as old as humanity itself. The only question left was <em>who </em>had murdered this poor pregnant girl and buried her in the middle of a field.</p>
<p>Knowing that wouldn’t help her take care of the wraith, though. Della set the question aside for now. Clearing wraiths was practically second-nature at this point. She anointed her silver sword with specter oil, the pale liquid beading up on the steel. Facing the skeleton, she curled her fingers into the <em>igni </em>sign and poured fire over it. The wet ground resisted, sucking the heat from her fire, but she pushed magic through the sign, and after a few minutes, everything was dry enough to catch.</p>
<p>Bone cracked and blackened, an unholy stink rising from the flames. But as the fire warmed Della’s face, a cold chill passed behind her.</p>
<p>The wraith was here, then.</p>
<p>She closed her eyes to help her vision adjust and turned away from the fire, allowing her other senses to tell her where the wraith was. It shrieked from her left, too far for her to hit just yet, so she waited. The rain eased off, finally, making it easier to hear the ghostly <em>hiss </em>of the wraith’s movements. Even when wraiths faded from view, they could be tracked by the sounds they made, the cold spot that followed them.</p>
<p>Her back to the dying embers, Della waited, breathing slow and steady. The wraith would attack her; they always did. They were mindless pockets of ectoplasmic energy made of rage and fear and vengeance, and they’d turn on anyone in sight. It wasn’t their fault they were what they were, but they couldn’t be reasoned with—only destroyed.</p>
<p>A hiss from her right, and she ducked, swung, felt the sword meet the barest hint of resistance as it passed through the wraith. The thing screeched as the specter oil burned into it. Della opened her eyes, pupils full blown to take in every bit of light, and saw it, grey and misty, insubstantial robes floating around it. For a second, she saw the frightened, confused girl whose death had created the wraith, then its face opened, jaw hinging too far, teeth lengthening, tongue lolling nearly to its collarbone. It screamed its fury at her and lunged.</p>
<p>Della leapt back, fingers flicking to throw a circle of Yrden down in front of her. The wraith passed into it easily, but then the runes making up the circle flared, and the wraith snapped into full corporeality. Della lunged forward, arm extended, and drove the sword through the wraith’s chest, feeling the shock of impact all the way to her shoulder.</p>
<p>The wraith froze. The robes stilled, and it sank, feet touching the ground. Its face closed back up, and a sad girl looked at Della for a heartbeat. Then it disintegrated, ectoplasm raining down into the mud with wet <em>splats</em>. Della gave her sword a couple of shakes, getting the worst of the mess off the blade. It would need a thorough cleaning when she got back to the barn.</p>
<p>“Well fought,” said a voice behind her, and only sheer willpower kept her from spinning around. She knew that voice. It had haunted her for months. <em>If I were you, I would hope we don’t cross paths again,</em> he had said, and here he was. Again.</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me that wraith was a friend of yours, too,” she said, resting the flat of her sword on her shoulder and turning with feigned casualness to face Rhellen.</p>
<p>“Heavens, no,” he said. “I took a shortcut and happened to catch your scent on the wind.”</p>
<p><em>Vampires.</em> Della glared at him and deliberately turned her back, pulling her feet out of the mud and going back to the shallow grave to collect her things.</p>
<p>“I found it most interesting that despite the hour, a man has chosen to stand in his barn, holding a pitchfork and staring into the dark.”</p>
<p>The farmer. Della had thought as much. Who else would have killed and buried this girl in the middle of his field? And then denied the existence of her ghost? She wondered how much Bess knew or suspected. Had she brought Della out here just to take care of the wraith, or had she suspected her husband and hoped for confirmation?</p>
<p>Either way, the man was lurking in the barn, planning to kill Della—whether to hide his crime or to avoid paying her, she didn’t care which. It wouldn’t be the first time for either, nor the last.</p>
<p>“Thanks for the warning,” she said.</p>
<p>“Of course,” Rhellen said, his voice sugar-sweet. “If anyone’s going to kill you, it’s going to be me.”</p>
<p>She shot him a glare, and he grinned at her, teeth too white in the moonless dark.</p>
<p>“What will you do about him?” Rhellen asked, sounding honestly curious.</p>
<p>Della grunted in response and headed back to the barn. Though her feet squelched in the mud, she didn’t hear a sound from Rhellen, though she could feel him behind her, a prickle at the back of her neck and a tension in her shoulders. It took all of her self-control to keep from speeding up, to pretend that having a predator—one who represented a real threat to her—at her back didn’t bother her.</p>
<p>She didn’t think Rhellen would hurt her. Not now, anyway. Like most vampires, it seemed he enjoyed playing with his food. Just, as a higher vampire, that “playing” looked a lot different than it did on the lower members of their species.</p>
<p>He might kill her one day. But it wouldn’t be now.</p>
<p>The barn was dark and apparently deserted. An unmutated human probably wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss. But, as humans seemed to keep forgetting, Witcher senses were better. She saw the outline of the farmer just inside the door, pitchfork and all. Smelled his unwashed odor. Heard his nervous breathing, his heart pounding just a little too hard.</p>
<p>She stopped ten feet from the door, adjusting her sword where it lay across her shoulders.</p>
<p>“Do you think this is the best idea you ever had?” she asked the darkness.</p>
<p>The man gasped, his heart rate speeding up. “Damn Witchers,” he muttered to himself.</p>
<p>“I’m going to get my things and go,” Della said. “I strongly suggest you don’t hinder me. It wouldn’t go well for you.”</p>
<p>He snorted, taking a few steps forward, pitchfork gripped tightly in his fist. “You’re just a little girl.”</p>
<p>“And I wouldn’t be the first little girl you’ve killed, would I?” Della said. “How old was she? Sixteen? Seventeen? Did she live here with you, or in town?”</p>
<p>Fear-sweat filled the air with a pungent aroma not unlike urine.</p>
<p>“Was it your babe? Did you kill her to cover up your infidelity?”</p>
<p>“She was my <em>daughter</em>,” he bellowed. “And she’d been fucking every itinerant what came through. ‘Twas no more than she deserved.”</p>
<p><em>“Not that I recall,” my ass, </em>Della thought. Her concern about Bess’ involvement in the plan to kill her rather than pay her edged upward. Or she may just have been trying to avoid airing her family’s dirty laundry. Maybe she honestly hadn’t known that her husband had killed their daughter.</p>
<p>It didn’t truly matter. All Della wanted was to collect her horse, her things, preferably her pay, and leave. Human justice wasn’t her concern or her job.</p>
<p>Every sense on high alert, Della wiped down her silver sword and put it away, then stashed her potion bottles in a saddlebag. Her skin prickled as a dark shape swirled past her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Rhellen re-forming from smoke to lurk behind the farmer, who didn’t seem to have noticed the vampire at all.</p>
<p><em>Cute trick, </em>she thought. <em>Wonder if he’d teach me.</em></p>
<p>She hesitated only briefly at leaving the farmer alone with the vampire. Deciding she felt more secure with Rhellen watching her back, she led Gwyn out of the barn and back onto the track that led down to the main road. Gwyn grumbled a bit, then blew out a horsey sigh. She was used to traveling at night after not enough rest, but she still made her displeasure known.</p>
<p>“At least you got a nap,” Della muttered at the horse. Gwyn snorted. Della sighed in return. She regretted the loss of the promised place to sleep and meal, but she didn’t want to risk waking with a pitchfork in her gut.</p>
<p>
  <em>At least the rain has stopped.</em>
</p>
<p>As they passed the farmhouse, Della saw Bess standing in the doorway, her hands tucked under her arms. The woman let out a gasp—of shock, or relief, or dismay, Della couldn’t be sure—when she spotted Della.</p>
<p>“The specter was your daughter,” Della called, and Bess’ hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide in her pale face. “She was pregnant.”</p>
<p>Bess’ knees gave out, and she collapsed in a heap on the stoop. “I thought she’d run away,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “She always did like the boys too much for her own good.”</p>
<p>Della read nothing but truth in vocal tone and body language. She truly hadn’t known that the body was out there, or that it was her daughter. Perhaps some part of her had suspected, but she hadn’t allowed herself to believe it. Too bad Della had to further pull the blinders from her eyes.</p>
<p>“Your husband killed her,” Della said.</p>
<p>Bess let out a keening wail. Della hardened her heart against sympathy. She had no time for weakness, nor could she risk it. Not with the farmer-husband all too ready to kill her to cover up his crime. She continued, “We agreed on bed and board. Since your husband has deprived me of both, I’ll need my pay some other way.”</p>
<p>Bess’ face crumpled, tears streaming down her face. “So much for the compassion of a girl Witcher,” she choked. “Seems the stories are all true, even about you. Witchers got no hearts.”</p>
<p>Della felt the muscle in her jaw harden, but she kept her face as impassive as she could manage. Let this woman take her shock and anger and despair out on her. She’d be gone soon, and Bess would have to live with the man who murdered her daughter and grandchild. Or not, as she chose. It made no difference to Della.</p>
<p>Bess disappeared into the house, emerging again a moment later with a cloth-wrapped bundle. She stalked over to Della, half-throwing it at her. From it rose the unmistakable smell of fresh bread. Della’s stomach snarled.</p>
<p>“Your <em>pay</em>,” Bess growled, following the bundle with a handful of coppers. They plopped into the mud at Della’s feet. “I never want to see you again.”</p>
<p>With that, she turned and stormed back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Della crouched to pick up the coppers, one eye on the barn in case the farmer decided this was his moment.</p>
<p>Whether due to luck or Rhellen, the farmer didn’t emerge. Della didn’t know and couldn’t bring herself to care whether Rhellen had killed him. The man had killed his own daughter for nothing more than enjoying the company of men and falling pregnant. Della sympathized with the girl; if the Bear School hadn’t taken her in, her fate might have been similar. Not the pregnancy, of course, but she might have had to sell herself on the streets of Novigrad.</p>
<p>Coppers tucked in a pocket, she headed down the track to the road.</p>
<p>A swirl of smoke, and Rhellen appeared beside her. He matched his pace to hers, though Della was certain he could move three times faster than she. He didn’t seem impatient, though, just thoughtful as he followed her in silence down to the main road.</p>
<p>“Is that how they usually react?” he asked finally.</p>
<p>“This was nothing,” Della said. She opened the bundle and removed a roll, stuffing it in her mouth. “I didn’t actually get stabbed,” she said around the mouthful.</p>
<p>“It’s a wonder any of you continue to do this work,” Rhellen said. “If all your clients are this truly ungrateful.”</p>
<p>Della shrugged. “What else am I good for?” she asked, mostly rhetorically. “Trading? Farming?” She had long ago come to terms with what the mutations had done to her, her life, and her prospects.</p>
<p>Rhellen was thoughtfully quiet for a moment, then said, “No, I can’t imagine you staying in one place for long.”</p>
<p>Della turned, a caustic reply warming her lips, something about how little he knew her, truly, but he was gone. The speed and silence with which he’d disappeared sent goosebumps up her arms. On the day he decided to kill her—and she had no doubt that day would come—she’d never hear him coming. She shuddered at the thought.</p>
<p>At least it was not this day—or night. Stuffing another roll in her mouth, she stepped out onto the road and left the farm behind.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>